Lily flexed her tired fingers and picked up the needle again.
“The kids already laugh at what she wears,” she said, without looking at me. “Yesterday she asked the teacher if she could sing from behind the curtain.”
A girl in Lily’s grade.
“Oh, honey.”
“I want her to wear something she doesn’t have to hide in.”
She spread the skirt across her knees. It was deep green, simple and beautiful, the kind of dress that doesn’t try too hard.
“She has such a pretty voice, Mom. You should hear her.”
I felt a swell of pride. I remember thinking that Daniel would have been proud too.
“I want her to wear something she doesn’t have to hide in.”
Then she reached for the bag beside her chair and laid a blue cardigan on top of the dress.
My breath caught.
It was her father’s last gift. He’d bought it the winter before he died, two sizes too big, because he said she would grow into it. She wore it on bad days. She wore it to his funeral. I’d caught her sleeping in it.
I reached out to touch it. She pulled it away.
I felt a swell of pride.
